


In Wait

by Ryu_Reikai_Akuma



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: A Tiny Bit of Kink Shaming, Allusion of Homophobia, Bisexual Brian May, Bisexual Roger, Denial of Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Rain, Scrabble, Temper Tantrums, a touch of internalized homophobia, because I say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 07:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryu_Reikai_Akuma/pseuds/Ryu_Reikai_Akuma
Summary: Roger and Brian found each other attractive. They just didn’t like admitting it and they certainly didn’t know what to do with it.





	In Wait

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to resist writing for this fandom, but this fic won’t leave me alone. So, here it is. Note: I’m not British and I was nowhere near existing during the time period in the film, so. 
> 
> This is based on an [LJ prompt](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%237) which I've been warily eyeing for a while. I wasn't sure what to do with "Lashes" but then Roger Taylor happened into my life and here we are. For the writer's choice, I chose "Legs" because I think it's ridiculous that there are "Hand" and "Fingers" but nothing about the lower extremity.

Eyes

There was a spark in Roger’s eyes that could only be described as wicked. Brian had noted this from the first time they met (right after thinking that Roger was one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen) and the impression only grew stronger the longer they knew each other. Roger was trouble. Every day spent without cleaning up some mess he had left behind was a miracle and every day spent dealing with problems he had caused was simply another day in the life of the friends of Roger Taylor. This only got worse whenever Freddie was added into the equation. Their personalities matched so terrifically that they argued as often as they got along, just louder– _much_ louder. Brian was very glad when John agreed to join them, as without him he would’ve definitely been outnumbered and overwhelmed.

Over time, Brian had developed a sense of fond resignation for Roger’s antics—his womanizing way, his tantrums, his short temper, his stubbornness. In the course of their friendship, he had developed methods to handle these. But, sometimes he was still caught off guard, not knowing how to react. Like right now, when the room was pulsing with light and music, when gyrating bodies around them jostled them together in time with a pounding rhythm, when alcohol had loosened some of Brian’s self-control, when Roger looked at him with blue eyes bright with joy and mischief. Brian ought to step back—he knew he ought to—but the crowd kept bringing them together and his feet wouldn’t move anywhere but closer to Roger.

They bumped against each other often. Brian didn’t have enough presence of mind to catalogue their body parts, only the lingering sensation left behind by Roger’s accidental caresses that no other person around them could hope to imitate. His gaze was fixed on Roger’s face, on his smug smirk, on the sweat beading his skin, on eyes heated but soft, on the unspoken in his expression. Pink tongue darted out to wet lips and Brian remembered that the room was packed and the light was low and everyone was occupied with themselves or their companions. But, was it packed enough? Was it dark enough? Would no one see them? What if someone saw? Thoughts of consequences sent a rush of cold down his spine and made him shake his head and finally take a step back, then another, then another. There was just enough light for him to see Roger’s eyes dim with disappointment, his smirk vanishing, before he turned his attention to the nearest pretty thing. Chest constricted with known secret, Brian walked away and sat where the dancing crowd blocked his view from Roger and his latest object of affection.

* * *

Legs

Sometimes, when they were performing, Roger watched Brian’s lanky figure. While Roger himself wasn’t terribly short, he knew he looked that way when standing near Brian–as most people did. From behind the drum set, he would watch how Brian’s long legs, wrapped in snug trousers, seemed to go on forever. Some girls (and boys, he supposed) liked that, while Roger… was undecided, he supposed. Some days he envied Brian’s stature. Other days he was simply indifferent. Yet other days, he liked seeing how Brian towered over people’s heads in a crowd, an awkward but gentle giant surveying the land of normal-sized human.

Roger scoffed at the mental image this thought conjured up and then nearly jumped out of his skin when Brian suddenly appeared behind him and hummed in question. His heart was still pounding when Brian started to walk beside him toward their van, leaving the loud noises of the student club further and further behind them with every step. The parking lot was poorly lit, but Roger could still make out the curiosity in Brian’s eyes as he waited for an explanation. Embarrassed, Roger tried to walk faster, a feat already difficult when performed while carrying his chosen instruments made virtually impossible with Brian’s long strides. Eventually, he gave up and slowed down, much to Brian’s unconcealed amusement.

“What were you laughing about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Roger lied.

Brian arched an eyebrow. “Why did you try to run away from me then?”

“Who said I tried to run away from you?”

“So you didn’t just try to outrun me to the van?”

Roger continued to deny that he was trying to get away from anyone and Brian kept insisting that he definitely was, until they arrived at the van. Embarrassment and irritation made Roger rougher with the drums than he should be as he loaded them into the back of the van. He was about to throw one into the vehicle so he could end the stupid conversation when Brian held his wrist, stopping him. He looked up to Brian. Standing this closely together, Roger felt smaller than he really was. Brian’s height could make him intimidating or imposing and Roger did feel a little bit intimidated. However, he knew Brian and knew that he meant no harm, that the hand on his wrist was meant to stop him from doing something he would regret later when his annoyance had dissipated, that the way he looked down to him was meant to convey care and fondness rather than threat. Roger felt his anger simmered down. Maybe Brian knew this because he started to gently stroke the inside of his wrist with his thumb and Roger thought about how the measly centimeters between them could easily be crossed with just a tilt of his head. However, Roger looked away instead and when Freddie and John joined them, they were sitting on the back of the van, legs pressed together in near dark.

* * *

Hands

One time, very early in their friendship, Roger had punched him. Brian couldn’t remember why. He had been drunk and he supposed he must have said something uncharitable to him. The next morning had found Brian with an impressive dark bruise on his cheek that took quite a while to disappear. Fortunately, Brian had been forgiven (and roughly cared for) after Roger firmly informed him that he deserved the punch. Although Brian never did find out what it was he had said, the incident (and multiple flying projectiles throughout the years) had taught him well enough that he must avoid angering Roger in the future.

While it was no surprise to find strength in Roger’s hands, it was always something of a marvel that they were equally capable of gentleness. Brian sometimes watched the way he caressed lucky girls who caught his eyes. No matter how passionately he kissed, his hands were always gentle, running down hair, back, faces, arms or legs (and a few other choice body parts Brian was too polite to recall even in the privacy of his mind). Brian often tried to imitate him if he happened to also bring a girl with him. He didn’t always succeed and conceded that of the two of them, Roger was the better lover. Brian wasn’t (terribly) envious of this fact, although he wondered sometimes how it felt to be like Roger and, more often than he should, how it felt to be liked by him.

Maybe it was like those nights they had too much to drink, too little to do, and no one to keep them in check. Brian wasn’t normally an overly physical man, but loosened inhibition would eventually, after a few minutes of lying side by side, lead him to wrap his long limbs around Roger. Roger, the good friend he was when not being angry or particularly silly, always indulged him. He would hold Brian to his chest, completely disregarding that Brian was rather significantly taller than him, and stroked his hair until he migrated his hand to Brian’s back, running up and down the broad expanse and settling calmingly when Brian grew restless. They always talked during these times, laughing or complaining about friends and families and strangers and the courses of their lives. The hand on his back that anchored him, protected him, cared for him, made him feel belong. It was innocent in a way, certainly nothing like what Roger did with his girls. Still, Brian liked to think it meant more than the caresses Roger shared with anyone else.

* * *

Cheeks

Roger liked Brian’s facial features, he honestly did. He thought it was very distinguished, almost regal. It was the kind of face one would find in old sculptures and paintings, to be found and admired many centuries later, immortalized in history and arts the way generic pretty faces wouldn’t be. Roger contemplated this thought while smoking—both more exciting activities than studying for an upcoming test. The heavy brows, the curve of his nose, his plush lips, and his high cheekbones lent themselves to a classic look. The curly hair unfortunately ruined the effect, but otherwise Roger thought he had seen similar faces staring at him from the walls of museums or pages of books, newspapers and magazines. If there was a revival of classical arts, Brian should model. Although, Roger couldn’t imagine him doing that since it would take precious time that could otherwise be spent practicing music or studying.

Roger had probably stared too hard, because Brian looked up at him from the newspaper he was reading. Roger managed to look away just in time to not be caught, but he was sure Brian knew because when he next looked, there was a small smile on his face as he resumed his reading. A little annoyed at himself, he crushed his cigarette on an ashtray and picked up his thick textbook. The next few minutes were spent in silence as Brian continued reading his newspaper and Roger tried to remember what his professors had said in his classes when he was either hung over or too tired to pay any attention to the world of the living.

“I’m going to make us some tea,” Brian said, standing up. He nodded to Roger. “You can tell me what you have in mind whenever you’re ready.”

Roger frowned. “I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular.”

Brian huffed. “Of course not.”

This was spoken calmly, with not a hint of condescension, sarcasm or teasing. But, exactly because it was spoken with quiet amusement that Roger became incensed. Of the two of them, Roger was the short-tempered one and Brian the calm and collected one. Roger usually thought that they complemented each other very well when they weren’t at each other’s throats, that this was why they got along and worked together so well for years. But, sometimes he _loathed_ Brian’s self-possession, how unflappable he was at all times. Just once, Roger would like to see that composure crack and give way to the emotions Brian only expressed in music.

Irritated, Roger looked at Brian squarely in the eyes and admitted challengingly. “I was just thinking that your face belongs in classical arts.”

Roger expected laughter, a dismissive scoff, and even a non-reaction. He didn’t expect Brian’s cheeks to suddenly turn red. Roger sat up quickly, eyes wide in surprise as he stared the blush Brian was vainly attempting to cover with his large hand. Before Roger could stop him, Brian muttered something indecipherable and dashed to the kitchen for an escape. Out of sight, he proceeded to make quite a racket while presumably making the tea he promised, if not completely demolishing the kitchen. He ignored Roger’s calls and taunts and stayed away until Roger grew bored and continued studying. When the kettle whistled some time later, Roger was barely paying attention. The whole incident was well out of his mind when Brian finally returned with the tea. At least until Roger looked up from his book and saw charming redness still coloring Brian’s cheeks.

* * *

Skin

Brian didn’t mean to sound like a prude, but he thought Roger could stand to cover himself up a little more. His shirts were often not completely buttoned, if not left completely open. Some days, he’d even go shirtless, sights that never failed to bring strong reactions from the audience. Roger might not be well-built like some, but there was something alluring in his lithe appearance, a deceiving softness that contrasts the mischief and fire in his eyes and smiles and performance. Brian understood that it was meant to draw attention and attract new fans, but the effort seemed a little excessive sometimes.

He couldn’t tell Roger about this, of course, not without getting into an argument or being teased about it for the rest of their friendship (which, if Brian had anything to say about it, would last a lifetime). Besides, what reason could he give? There was no denying the effectiveness of Roger’s looks in terms of increasing their popularity and it wasn’t as if it interfered with his performance. It was entirely for the sake of Brian’s sanity. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—not even Roger’s—that glimpses of skin made Brian itch to reveal more, ignited his desire to touch, made him long for what he knew he shouldn’t have. The weakness was Brian’s and he shouldn’t expect Roger to provide him with a solution. If Brian didn’t want temptation, he should just look away.

But, looking away could be difficult. Often, before he knew it, he would find himself turning to Roger’s direction. Fortunately, the memory of every song was already deeply embedded in his body because he found his mind turning to dreams he didn’t dare to share with anyone when he was supposed to be focusing on their songs. Roger was usually too preoccupied to notice, but sometimes Brian stared when there was no distraction and Roger would catch his gaze with a curious look, like this time.

They were waiting for Freddie and John to arrive at practice. Roger was twirling his drum stick absently as he lay down on a sofa, his half-buttoned shirt exposing his pale chest. The sight should be mundane—Brian was also a man and he’d seen his friends changed their clothes in front of him too many times to count—yet he still found himself fixated on the patch of skin. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked, if Roger was ticklish, if he bruised easily, if he was sensitive. He wondered how his hand would look there holding him, how his fingers would look tracing invisible patterns, how his lips could leave marks no one should ever see. Brian’s mind was drifting to increasingly risqué wonderings when he realized that Roger was narrowing his eyes at him. Guiltily, Brian tore his gaze away, hoping that Roger would not question him. Usually he didn’t. Brian tried not to dwell on how much this disappointed him.

“See something you like?”

When Brian dared to turn his attention back to him, he saw that Roger was smirking at him, but not in malice. Instead, he wore an inviting expression Brian was familiar with, but hardly ever received before. Did he know what he was doing, what he was tempting? Probably not. Roger probably just treated this as he treated girls who threw themselves at him at the end of their performances. Brian should dismiss this as a joke. But, he couldn’t. For once, Roger verbally acknowledged his attention and Brian couldn’t let the opportunity slip by.

“I do,” he admitted.

Roger’s eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting the answer. They stared at each other for a long moment, not a word spoken. Nervously, Brian wondered if he had made a mistake and if it was too late to take his words back. But, Roger’s smirk softened into a smile. He made himself more comfortable on the sofa and looked away. And Brian, the stupid desperate man that he was, seized the unsaid invitation. If later he made more mistakes in the practice than usual because he kept getting distracted by the sliver of skin Roger continued to display, he only had himself to blame.

* * *

Fingers

Not that this was usually the sort of thing Roger found attractive, but he thought Brian had the most elegant fingers he had ever seen. Roger could spend hours watching his long fingers danced over the strings of his guitar or even did mundane things like writing, using eating utensils, fiddling in nervousness or boredom, even turning bloody pages. He made these things performances of their own, a poetry in motion. Roger sometimes thought he must look like a brute performing next to Brian, although he wouldn’t trade the drum for any string instrument. Roger could play the guitar, but he wasn’t as good as Brian, and he was fine with that. They all had their parts anyway and Roger’s was playing the drum and admiring the way Brian performed.

But, Roger was not a freak. He was a pervert, true, but not a freak. He knew a few people with strange fascination with hands and feet and honestly didn’t understand them. His interests were pretty common: tits and asses, pretty faces, and the occasional cocks. Fingers never got his interest. The only exception was Brian’s and he felt quite secure in his reasons for it. So he also felt quite secure in playing with said fingers on a night the four of them hung out at Brian’s to watch the telly.

Freddie and John were engrossed in what was on the screen, but Roger was more fascinated by the way Brian’s long fingers were splayed in the space between them. On a whim, Roger took his hand and caressed the length of the fingers, the calluses resulted from his dedication to his art, the strength when he gripped Roger’s exploring fingers. Roger lifted his eyes to a mildly amused look on Brian’s face. There was no reproach, so Roger continued his exploration, stroking Brian’s fingers until he was pretty sure that he had memorized every millimeter of them and could recognize them by touch alone. He spent the rest of the night holding and caressing them, never letting Brian go.

* * *

Neck

It was deep red on pale neck, impossible to miss, impossible to mistake for anything else, and Brian couldn’t stop staring. He couldn’t remember who Roger brought home last night, only that he _did_ bring home someone, someone who was gone in the morning, someone Roger wouldn’t remember in a couple of days’ time, but someone Roger thought was worthy of a night of his attention.

At first, anger flared and swelled in Brian’s chest, an ugly thing that spread like wildfire and made him see red. But, it soon fizzled out and disappeared, leaving only hazy memory of the heat that had been there. There were ugly words to say about the way Roger so often indulged himself, but Brian didn’t want to say them. After all, it was entirely within Roger’s rights to choose who to take to his bed, just as it was entirely within Brian’s rights to choose to _not_ take anyone to his bed. They both made their choices and here were the consequences: Roger proudly displaying the aftermath of his night to the world and Brian sitting across from him with his guitar on his lap, staring at the red love bite someone else had made on someone he only embraced in his dreams.

Roger caught his stare and in a rare moment of self-consciousness adjusted the collar of his jacket to cover his neck. Brian saw a hint of uncertainty in his face before it was replaced by false bravado and indifference. Brian considered this and his own feelings for a moment while idly strumming his guitar. Once he came to a conclusion, he stood up under the pretense of getting a drink. The sudden movement brought back that uncertainty and were Brian a crueler man, he would enjoy the way Roger watched him in apprehension. But, he was not. So, he just patted Roger’s shoulder when he walked past him, his thumb skirting close to where the love bite was on his neck. Brian smiled disarmingly when their eyes met. When he pulled his hand away, though he wished to linger, the sight of Roger’s relieved smile was enough to please him.

* * *

Heart

Roger woke up in a bed to a tangle of limbs, most of which weren’t his own. His tired brain couldn’t muster any memory of where he was and how he got there, but he recognized Freddie’s snore and John’s profile in the dark, and relaxed, knowing he was safe and in good company. Roger yawned and settled back down to the pillow under his head, ready to continue whatever dream he had had before he woke up. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t a pillow that he was laying on and when he did realize, he was immediately awake.

Brian’s flat stomach rose and fell slowly in front of Roger. His heart, right below Roger’s ear, beat a soft and steady rhythm, lulling, comforting. Roger wondered if he could replicate it with his drums, if he could record it and listen to it and pretended that it wasn’t an instrument he was listening to, but Brian’s heart. Slowly, he extracted his hand from under John’s leg, drawing little more than a quick interruption in his quiet breaths, and put it on Brian’s chest. In the dark, he watched his hand, a blue-ish silhouette that moved in time with the rhythm of Brian’s body, a secret indulgence of a fantasy.

The heartbeats he listened to accelerated. From above Roger there was a whoosh of exhalation. The heartbeats thrummed fast as Brian woke up and took stock of the situation. Roger stayed still, afraid of ruining the rare delicate moment. Seconds passed with hardly a single movement. Then, fingers. Sliding through his (probably dirty and messy) hair. The touch was whisper soft, but the effect was far from slight. Roger’s fingers involuntarily curled to clutch Brian’s t-shirt and a sigh, too loud and full of longing to be mistaken as a product of dream, escaped his mouth. But, the fingers hardly hesitated, running through his hair and down his neck to finally settle on his shoulder, a warm and grounding presence to keep him safe and near. The heartbeat calmed once again as Brian found contentment. Roger could only stay awake a few minutes more. The last thing he was aware of before he fell back under was a gentle pull that brought him even closer Brian’s heart.

* * *

Lashes

There was something humbling and calming about watching the sky, an escape when Brian felt overwhelmed by his highly hectic life. His friends seemed to understand, because they never asked when he stepped outside to turn his eyes heaven-ward. They mostly left him alone, with the exception of Roger, who sometimes came along to watch the night sky with a cigarette burning between his lips, lighting up his face, reflected by his blue eyes and long eyelashes. Brian didn’t mind. Roger was unusually quiet during these moments and it was nice to know that in silence and stillness, he wasn’t alone.

Tonight was one of those nights. Practice had gone very well, which was to say that Freddie and Roger had shouted at each other on principle since they actually agreed on the same points, John had quietly made remarks that none of them could either dismiss or retort (so Freddie and Roger had shouted at each other some more), and Brian had fed the fire while simultaneously tried to keep everyone from strangling each other. By the time they all returned to his flat, he was filled with so much adrenaline and excitement that he had to almost immediately leave again to calm himself. He had only left the premise when he noticed Roger following him. He let him and they soon found themselves in a park, both of them sitting on a bench away from obstructive trees, Brian looking up to slightly cloudy sky and Roger silently smoking while thinking who knew what. It was nice, relaxing, and Brian thought he could spend maybe half of his life this way (the other half, he thought he’d like to spend on stage,) watching the beautiful space above him with one of the greatest, nicest, funniest, most talented, most handsome men he knew, sitting next to him, sharing this silent but significant moment with him.

Brian was almost ready to return to his flat when the first drops of rain fell. He flinched when they hit his skin, but otherwise ignored them, determined to take his fill of the sky to the fullest before he admitted surrender to the weather. Eventually, though, when the moon was hidden behind dark clouds and he was rather soaked, he had to give up, and he turned to Roger to announce that they were coming back. However, the words were stuck in his throat when he saw that Roger was staring at him, waiting, his face wet with raindrops and framed by damp hair, his cigarette gone. Under the dim glow of a nearby street light, Brian could see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. Roger looked soft and delicate, even though Brian knew he was anything but, and something inside Brian’s chest swelled uncontrollably at the sight of it.

“You look like you’re crying,” he said hoarsely. His voice couldn’t come out right.

“Well, I’m not.”

Roger leaned away a little when Brian’s long fingers neared his eyes to wipe away water from his eyelashes, but he didn’t resist. Slowly, Brian pulled his hand away and, just as slowly, Roger opened his eyes again and looked at him quietly from under his lovely long eyelashes. They stared at each other, rainwater collecting on skin, clothes, and hair. Over and over Brian wiped the false tears, making weak jokes and remarks neither of them seemed to hear. Roger never argued and Brian was mighty pleased for it. (Freddie shouted at them about catching their death in the cold when they finally came back.)

* * *

Lips

There were many things and people Roger liked to do on Friday nights, all of them involving having unbridled fun to forget the troubles accumulated on the weekdays. Playing scrabble used to not be one of them, but then Freddie happened into his and Brian’s life. Now Roger actually sometimes found himself just staying in at night, drinking, arguing over a board game with his friends, and actually having fun. Freddie naturally excelled in it, having unsurprisingly extensive vocabulary that they all had so often seen in his songs. John played unassumingly, but often managed to come up with words when the rest of them had declared it impossible to continue. Brian was quite good at it, although his success rate rather declined after being banned from using scientific words none of them could even begin to guess the meanings of. Roger thought he was rather good at it, however he was frankly more excited about spending time with his friends than winning (which he had managed to do a few times!).

John won their latest game and Freddie was busy disputing that and vowing to win the next game, so Roger laughingly went to the kitchen to get them some food and drink. On the way, he saw that it was almost midnight, but he didn’t feel exhausted at all. In fact, he felt very much awake and exuberant, a state unusually present only by the happiness of being among friends rather than the thrill of performing before a crowd or sleeping with someone. And while Brian seemed quiet and somber as he followed him to the kitchen, Roger had noticed that his lips had curled into a smile throughout the night when not parted as they usually were when he was concentrating hard. Away from the infectious joy their band mates exuded, Roger enthusiastically reviewed the game to Brian, who was quietly eating the leftover of a cake brought by Mary this morning. Roger would be more offended at the lack of response if he weren’t in such a good mood. As he was, he merely laughed loudly when he saw white cream smeared over Brian’s lips, causing his friend to frown in confusion.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you weren’t happy at all to be here.” Roger grinned as he reached out to wipe off the sweet cream.

Brian was at first startled by the gesture, but then relaxed, looking deeply into Roger’s eyes. “I’m very happy now.”

Roger stopped and stared at Brian, thumb still on the corner of Brian’s soft lips. They said nothing, but he could feel a whole story being told in the silence, in the way Brian looked at him, in the way Roger couldn’t remove his hand, in the way his heart swelled and ached with intense longing. Then, Brian smiled, his lips shifting under Roger’s thumb in a mockery of a kiss and Roger couldn’t stop himself. He dove in for a passionate kiss only desperate lovers could manage. And Roger _was_ desperate, he realized. He had waited for so long for this, had held himself back for too long, had wanted and needed this for longer than he could recall, and he didn’t want to fight this—himself anymore. Judging from the way Brian held him close and kissed back ferociously as Roger plummeted his lips, he felt quite the same.

They parted seconds or maybe minutes or maybe hours later, but couldn’t seem to bring themselves to pull away from each other. Brian’s arms were still around Roger and Roger’s fingers were still digging into the nape of Brian’s neck as they looked at each other, communicating what they didn’t yet have the breath to say. The moment was broken, however, when Freddie called them impatiently from the living room, his voice clear and loud and seemingly coming from far too close for comfort. Roger jumped back and out of Brian’s embrace without thinking, then chuckled nervously when he realized what he had done. It shouldn’t be so different from slipping out of a girl’s bed before she woke, but this was more complicated. There was more at stake than upsetting a stranger. He could lose a friend, a family, a dream, an escape, a support system, a place to be, a place to belong, everything. Roger was suddenly unsure if he was ready for it.

Brian must’ve realized this because he took a deep breath. With a carefully, _painfully_ neutral face, he patted the top of Roger’s head and walked past him. That was it. Roger knew Brian would never mention this or even hint at this ever again for the rest of their lives. That kiss, the culmination of what Roger now realized was years of wanting in secret, would be treated as if it was never there. He would still have Brian as his friend, nothing would change, but Roger wanted _something_ to change. The pain he felt about the prospect of losing this-Brian- _them_ was so searing that Brian had only made two steps before Roger pulled him back to firmly press a kiss on his lips, impulsive yet sure. It was nowhere as long or passionate as Roger wanted, but it would have to do for now. He hoped that the way he squeezed Brian’s hand conveyed promises he wanted to say. Seeing the way Brian smiled at him with the most tender expression Roger had ever seen directed to him, he thought Brian understood.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fic in this fandom and can I just say I'm infinitely amused that Roger's tag is the only one with "(Queen)" behind it. Ao3 knows who the hysterical queen is.
> 
> For now I can still be found on [tumblr](http://demonessryu.tumblr.com/).


End file.
